


How We Love the Seasons That Hide in Our Stomachs

by cridecoeur



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-02
Updated: 2006-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cridecoeur/pseuds/cridecoeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ministry says that no one escapes Azkaban – some days, they are right</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Love the Seasons That Hide in Our Stomachs

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my dear last_radio to celebrate her birthday. I asked for a prompt and she gave me some lines from "Same Ghost Every Night" which I have stuck down at the end of this fic for your perusal.

Sirius swallows his tea and listens to kitchen radio crackle – a low and constant noise. His hands curl around his teacup ( _savoring this feeling, once forgotten – heat against his palm_ ) and his feet tap tap against the black wood floor. His skin, he thinks, looks like burnt parchment when pressed against the table, against the papered walls, against the yellow teacup – his skin, raw and lined and unlovely.

That morning, Remus left in a green flash of magic – a fireplace enchantment. Sirius did not feel the weight of his absence, but the levity. Much worse, this missing piece. Now, Sirius drifts – unweighted. He leaves fingerprints on the windows, dirty oil spots, the afterthought of touch, tasting, like a spider, through the delicate skin of his hands. He rearranges pictures on the mantelpiece, dishes in the cabinets, and spices in the racks – imposition; he cannot be forgotten, cannot forget himself, while pressed in these small spaces. He finds himself in the quarter-turn of a coat rack, a crooked side table, an overturned salt shaker. He runs his fingers through the grey gritty salt and remembers the hum rush of sea water beneath his window, beyond his cell. He shivers.

( _He could hear the seabirds from Azkaban – could hear the seabirds scream as they dove from great heights, flash of white wings and coral or dirty brown bodies, like paper kites, an inward fold – gravity and descent._ )

He traces memories of stone walls against wallpaper – a map of twelve years, ingrained, five foot by five foot by ten, the gray between spaces, fractures and gaps and a window ledge. The Ministry says that no one escapes Azkaban – some days, they are right. His blood still rushes, hums, with the sea tides ( _a different lunar enchantment – a body displaced_ ). He licks salt from his fingers when the air tastes wrong and heavy – seeking with his tongue the grit of sea sand, the constant blue of an English beach ( _the first step before the fall – landing here_ ).

The kitchen door opens and in steps Remus with his brown tatty coat and bruised eyes. He smiles, and Sirius feels the floor beneath his feet – gravity returned. He touches Remus’ lips – red red red – and the dry skin of his elbow ( _cupped in his palm_ ). He tastes sweat in the crease of his mouth, honey on his tongue. “You’re back,” he says and kisses Remus in the papered kitchen. Remus smells of autumn, of dirt and wind and leaves. More earth and little sea. “Yes,” Remus says and presses his hand to Sirius’ hip.

 _(They undress, unbutton, unzip – slow and low tide movements – on a bed with white clean sheets. Quietly, Sirius touches Remus, quietly, an echo of screaming sea birds in his blood and a long deliberate fall from the great height – landing here.)_

 _And how we love the seasons that hide in our stomachs  
That howl and howl and howl as if Dropped from the great height  
And I thought the hours that lie in the kitchen _

_They drag him, drag him, drag into black night  
Dropped from the great height  
It was strange  
Constant blue  
And the same ghost every night_

\- Wolf Parade, Same Ghost Every Night


End file.
